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CHAPTER XXI
RITTER THEURDANK
The snow fell all night without ceasing, and was still falling on the morrow, when the guest explained his desire of paying a short visit to the young Baron, and then taking his departure. Christina would gladly have been quit of him, but she felt bound to remonstrate, for their mountain was absolutely impassable during a fall of snow, above all when accompanied by wind, since the drifts concealed fearful abysses, and the shifting masses insured destruction to the unwary wayfarer; nay, natives themselves had perished between the hamlet and the castle.
“Not the hardiest cragsman, not my son himself,” she said, “could venture on such a morning to guide you to—”
“Whither, gracious dame?” asked Theurdank, half smiling.
“Nay, sir, I would not utter what you would not make known.”
“You know me then?”
“Surely, sir, for our noble foe, whose generous trust in our honour must win my son’s heart.”
“So!” he said, with a peculiar smile, “Theurdank—Dankwart—I see! May I ask if your son likewise smelt out the Schlangenwald?”
“Verily, Sir Count, my Ebbo is not easily deceived. He said our guest could be but one man in all the empire.”
Theurdank smiled again, saying, “Then, lady, you shudder not at a man whose kin and yours have shed so much of one another’s blood?”
“Nay, ghostly knight, I regard you as no more stained therewith than are my sons by the deeds of their grandfather.”
“If there were more like you, lady,” returned Theurdank, “deadly feuds would soon be starved out. May I to your son? I have more to say to him, and I would fain hear his views of the storm.”
Christina could not be quite at ease with Theurdank in her son’s room, but she had no choice, and she knew that Heinz was watching on the turret stair, out of hearing indeed, but as ready to spring as a cat who sees her young ones in the hand of a child that she only half trusts.
Ebbo lay eagerly watching for his visitor, who greeted him with the same almost paternal kindness he had evinced the night before, but consulted him upon the way from the castle. Ebbo confirmed his mother’s opinion that the path was impracticable so long as the snow fell, and the wind tossed it in wild drifts.
“We have been caught in snow,” he said, “and hard work have we had to get home! Once indeed, after a bear hunt, we fully thought the castle stood before us, and lo! it was all a cruel snow mist in that mocking shape. I was even about to climb our last Eagle’s Step, as I thought, when behold, it proved to be the very brink of the abyss.”
“Ah! these ravines are well-nigh as bad as those of the Inn. I’ve known what it was to be caught on the ledge of a precipice by a sharp wind, changing its course, mark’st thou, so swiftly that it verily tore my hold from the rock, and had well-nigh swept me into a chasm of mighty depth. There was nothing for it but to make the best spring I might towards the crag on the other side, and grip for my life at my alpenstock, which by Our Lady’s grace was firmly planted, and I held on till I got breath again, and felt for my footing on the ice-glazed rock.”
“Ah!” said Eberhard with a long breath, after having listened with a hunter’s keen interest to this hair’s-breadth escape, “it sounds like a gust of my mountain air thus let in on me.”
“Truly it is dismal work for a lusty hunter to lie here,” said Theurdank, “but soon shalt thou take thy crags again in full vigour, I hope. How call’st thou the deep gray lonely pool under a steep frowning crag sharpened well-nigh to a spear point, that I passed yester afternoon?”
“The Ptarmigan’s Mere, the Red Eyrie,” murmured Ebbo, scarcely able to utter the words as he thought of Friedel’s delight in the pool, his exploit at the eyrie, and the gay bargain made in the streets of Ulm, that he should show the scaler of the Dom steeple the way to the eagle’s nest.
“I remember,” said his guest gravely, coming to his side. “Ah, boy! thy brother’s flight has been higher yet. Weep freely; fear me not. Do I not know what it is, when those who were over-good for earth have found their eagle’s wings, and left us here?”
Ebbo gazed up through his tears into the noble, mournful face that was bent kindly over him. “I will not seek to comfort thee by counselling thee to forget,” said Theurdank. “I was scarce thine elder when my life was thus rent asunder, and to hoar hairs, nay, to the grave itself, will she be my glory and my sorrow. Never owned I brother, but I trow ye two were one in no common sort.”
“Such brothers as we saw at Ulm were little like us,” returned Ebbo, from the bottom of his heart. “We were knit together so that all will begin with me as if it were the left hand remaining alone to do it! I am glad that my old life may not even in shadow be renewed till after I have gone in quest of my father.”
“Be not over hasty in that quest,” said the guest, “or the infidels may chance to gain two Freiherren instead of one. Hast any designs?”
Ebbo explained that he thought of making his way to Genoa to consult the merchant Gian Battista dei Battiste, whose description of the captive German noble had so strongly impressed Friedel. Ebbo knew the difference between Turks and Moors, but Friedel’s impulse guided him, and he further thought that at Genoa he should learn the way to deal with either variety of infidel. Theurdank thought this a prudent course, since the Genoese had dealings both at Tripoli and Constantinople; and, moreover, the transfer was not impossible, since the two different hordes of Moslems trafficked among themselves when either had made an unusually successful razzia.
“Shame,” he broke out, “that these Eastern locusts, these ravening hounds, should prey unmolested on the fairest lands of the earth, and our German nobles lie here like swine, grunting and squealing over the plunder they grub up from one another, deaf to any summons from heaven or earth! Did not Heaven’s own voice speak in thunder this last year, even in November, hurling the mighty thunderbolt of Alsace, an ell long, weighing two hundred and fifteen pounds? Did I not cause it to be hung up in the church of Encisheim, as a witness and warning of the plagues that hang over us? But no, nothing will quicken them from their sloth and drunkenness till the foe are at their doors; and, if a man arise of different mould, with some heart for the knightly, the good, and the true, then they kill him for me! But thou, Adlerstein, this pious quest over, thou wilt return to me. Thou hast head to think and heart to feel for the shame and woe of this misguided land.”
“I trust so, my lord,” said Ebbo. “Truly, I have suffered bitterly for pursuing my own quarrel rather than the crusade.”
“I meant not thee,” said Theurdank, kindly. “Thy bridge is a benefit to me, as much as, or more than, ever it can be to thee. Dost know Italian? There is something of Italy in thine eye.”
“My mother’s mother was Italian, my lord; but she died so early that her language has not descended to my mother or myself.”
“Thou shouldst learn it. It will be pastime while thou art bed-fast, and serve thee well in dealing with the Moslem. Moreover, I may have work for thee in Welschland. Books? I will send thee books. There is the whole chronicle of Karl the Great, and all his Palsgrafen, by Pulci and Boiardo, a brave Count and gentleman himself, governor of Reggio, and worthy to sing of deeds of arms; so choice, too, as to the names of his heroes, that they say he caused his church bells to be rung when he had found one for Rodomonte, his infidel Hector. He has shown up Roland as a love-sick knight, though, which is out of all accord with Archbishop Turpin. Wilt have him?”
“When we were together, we used to love tales of chivalry.”
“Ah! Or wilt have the stern old Ghibelline Florentine, who explored the three realms of the departed? Deep lore, and well-nigh unsearchable, is his; but I love him for the sake of his Beatrice, who guided him. May we find such guides in our day!”
“I have heard of him,” said Ebbo. “If he will tell me where my Friedel walks in light, then, my lord, I would read him with all my heart.”
“Or wouldst thou have rare Franciscus Petrarca? I wot thou art too young as yet for the yearnings of his sonnets, but their voice is sweet to the bereft heart.”
And he murmured over, in their melodious Italian flow, the lines on Laura’s death:—
“Not pallid, but yet whiter than the snow
By wind unstirred that on a hillside lies;
Rest seemed as on a weary frame to grow,
A gentle slumber pressed her lovely eyes.”
“Ah!” he added aloud to himself, “it is ever to me as though the poet had watched in that chamber at Ghent.”
Such were the discourses of that morning, now on poetry and book lore; now admiration of the carvings that decked the room; now talk on grand architectural designs, or improvements in fire-arms, or the discussion of hunting adventures. There seemed nothing in art, life, or learning in which the versatile mind of Theurdank was not at home, or that did not end in some strange personal reminiscence of his own. All was so kind, so gracious, and brilliant, that at first the interview was full of wondering delight to Ebbo, but latterly it became very fatiguing from the strain of attention, above all towards a guest who evidently knew that he was known, while not permitting such recognition to be avowed. Ebbo began to long for an interruption, but, though he could see by the lightened sky that the weather had cleared up, it would have been impossible to have suggested to any guest that the way might now probably be open, and more especially to such a guest as this. Considerate as his visitor had been the night before, the pleasure of talk seemed to have done away with the remembrance of his host’s weakness, till Ebbo so flagged that at last he was scarcely alive to more than the continued sound of the voice, and all the pain that for a while had been in abeyance seemed to have mastered him; but his guest, half reading his books, half discoursing, seemed too much immersed in his own plans, theories, and adventures, to mark the condition of his auditor.
Interruption came at last, however. There was a sudden knock at the door at noon, and with scant ceremony Heinz entered, followed by three other of the men-at-arms, fully equipped.
“Ha! what means this?” demanded Ebbo.
“Peace, Sir Baron,” said Heinz, advancing so as to place his large person between Ebbo’s bed and the strange hunter. “You know nothing of it. We are not going to lose you as well as your brother, and we mean to see how this knight likes to serve as a hostage instead of opening the gates as a traitor spy. On him, Koppel! it is thy right.”
“Hands off! at your peril, villains!” exclaimed Ebbo, sitting up, and speaking in the steady resolute voice that had so early rendered him thoroughly their master, but much perplexed and dismayed, and entirely unassisted by Theurdank, who stood looking on with almost a smile, as if diverted by his predicament.
“By your leave, Herr Freiherr,” said Heinz, putting his hand on his shoulder, “this is no concern of yours. While you cannot guard yourself or my lady, it is our part to do so. I tell you his minions are on their way to surprise the castle.”
Even as Heinz spoke, Christina came panting into the room, and, hurrying to her son’s side, said, “Sir Count, is this just, is this honourable, thus to return my son’s welcome, in his helpless condition?”
“Mother, are you likewise distracted?” exclaimed Ebbo. “What is all this madness?”
“Alas, my son, it is no frenzy! There are armed men coming up the Eagle’s Stairs on the one hand and by the Gemsbock’s Pass on the other!”
“But not a hair of your head shall they hurt, lady,” said Heinz. “This fellow’s limbs shall be thrown to them over the battlements. On, Koppel!”
“Off, Koppel!” thundered Ebbo. “Would you brand me with shame for ever? Were he all the Schlangenwalds in one, he should go as freely as he came; but he is no more Schlangenwald than I am.”
“He has deceived you, my lord,” said Heinz. “My lady’s own letter to Schlangenwald was in his chamber. ’Tis a treacherous disguise.”
“Fool that thou art!” said Ebbo. “I know this gentleman well. I knew him at Ulm. Those who meet him here mean me no ill. Open the gates and receive them honourably! Mother, mother, trust me, all is well. I know what I am saying.”
The men looked one upon another. Christina wrung her hands, uncertain whether her son were not under some strange fatal deception.
“My lord has his fancies,” growled Koppel. “I’ll not be balked of my right of vengeance for his scruples! Will he swear that this fellow is what he calls himself?”
“I swear,” said Ebbo, slowly, “that he is a true loyal knight, well known to me.”
“Swear it distinctly, Sir Baron,” said Heinz. “We have all too deep a debt of vengeance to let off any one who comes here lurking in the interest of our foe. Swear that this is Theurdank, or we send his head to greet his friends.”
Drops stood on Ebbo’s brow, and his breath laboured as he felt his senses reeling, and his powers of defence for his guest failing him. Even should the stranger confess his name, the people of the castle might not believe him; and here he stood like one indifferent, evidently measuring how far his young host would go in his cause.
“I cannot swear that his real name is Theurdank,” said Ebbo, rallying his forces, “but this I swear, that he is neither friend nor fosterer of Schlangenwald, that I know him, and I had rather die than that the slightest indignity were offered him.” Here, and with a great effort that terribly wrenched his wounded leg, he reached past Heinz, and grasped his guest’s hand, pulling him as near as he could.
“Sir,” he said, “if they try to lay hands on you, strike my death-blow!”
A bugle-horn was wound outside. The men stood daunted—Christina in extreme terror for her son, who lay gasping, breathless, but still clutching the stranger’s hand, and with eyes of fire glaring on the mutinous warriors. Another bugle-blast! Heinz was almost in the act of grappling with the silent foe, and Koppel cried as he raised his halbert, “Now or never!” but paused.
“Never, so please you,” said the strange guest. “What if your young lord could not forswear himself that my name is Theurdank! Are you foes to all the world save Theurdank?”
“No masking,” said Heinz, sternly. “Tell your true name as an honest man, and we will judge whether you be friend or foe.”
“My name is a mouthful, as your master knows,” said the guest, slowly, looking with strangely amused eyes on the confused lanzknechts, who were trying to devour their rage. “I was baptized Maximilianus; Archduke of Austria, by birth; by choice of the Germans, King of the Romans.”
“The Kaisar!”
Christina dropped on her knee; the men-at-arms tumbled backwards; Ebbo pressed the hand he held to his lips, and fainted away. The bugle sounded for the third time.
CHAPTER XXII
PEACE
Slowly and painfully did Ebbo recover from his swoon, feeling as if the means of revival were rending him away from his brother. He was so completely spent that he was satisfied with a mere assurance that nothing was amiss, and presently dropped into a profound slumber, whence he awoke to find it still broad daylight, and his mother sitting by the side of his bed, all looking so much as it had done for the last six weeks, that his first inquiry was if all that had happened had been but a strange dream. His mother would scarcely answer till she had satisfied herself that his eye was clear, his voice steady, his hand cool, and that, as she said, “That Kaisar had done him no harm.”
“Ah, then it was true! Where is he? Gone?” cried Ebbo, eagerly.
“No, in the hall below, busy with letters they have brought him. Lie still, my boy; he has done thee quite enough damage for one day.”
“But, mother, what are you saying! Something disloyal, was it not?”
“Well, Ebbo, I was very angry that he should have half killed you when he could so easily have spoken one word. Heaven forgive me if I did wrong, but I could not help it.”
“Did he forgive you, mother?” said Ebbo, anxiously.
“He—oh yes. To do him justice he was greatly concerned; devised ways of restoring thee, and now has promised not to come near thee again without my leave,” said the mother, quite as persuaded of her own rightful sway in her son’s sick chamber as ever Kunigunde had been of her dominion over the castle.
“And is he displeased with me? Those cowardly vindictive rascals, to fall on him, and set me at nought! Before him, too!” exclaimed Ebbo, bitterly.
“Nay, Ebbo, he thought thy part most gallant. I heard him say so, not only to me, but below stairs—both wise and true. Thou didst know him then?”
“From the first glance of his princely eye—the first of his keen smiles. I had seen him disguised before. I thought you knew him too, mother; I never guessed that your mind was running on Schlangenwald when we talked at cross purposes last night.”
“Would that I had; but though I breathed no word openly, I encouraged Heinz’s precautions. My boy, I could not help it; my heart would tremble for my only one, and I saw he could not be what he seemed.”
“And what doth he here? Who were the men who were advancing?”
“They were the followers he had left at St. Ruprecht’s, and likewise Master Schleiermacher and Sir Kasimir of Wildschloss.”
“Ha!”
“What—he had not told thee?”
“No. He knew that I knew him, was at no pains to disguise himself, yet evidently meant me to treat him as a private knight. But what brought Wildschloss here?”
“It seems,” said Christina, “that, on the return from Carinthia, the Kaisar expressed his intention of slipping away from his army in his own strange fashion, and himself inquiring into the matter of the Ford. So he took with him his own personal followers, the new Graf von Schlangenwald, Herr Kasimir, and Master Schleiermacher. The others he sent to Schlangenwald; he himself lodged at St. Ruprecht’s, appointing that Sir Kasimir should meet him there this morning. From the convent he started on a chamois hunt, and made his way hither; but, when the snow came on, and he returned not, his followers became uneasy, and came in search of him.”
“Ah!” said Ebbo, “he meant to intercede for Wildschloss—it might be he would have tried his power. No, for that he is too generous. How looked Wildschloss, mother?”
“How could I tell how any one looked save thee, my poor wan boy? Thou art paler than ever! I cannot have any king or kaisar of them all come to trouble thee.”
“Nay, motherling, there is much more trouble and unrest to me in not knowing how my king will treat us after such a requital! Prithee let him know that I am at his service.”
And, after having fed and refreshed her patient, the gentle potentate of his chamber consented to intimate her consent to admit the invader. But not till after delay enough to fret the impatient nerves of illness did Maximilian appear, handing her in, and saying, in the cheery voice that was one of his chief fascinations,—
“Yea, truly, fair dame, I know thou wouldst sooner trust Schlangenwald himself than me alone with thy charge. How goes it, my true knight?”
“Well, right well, my liege,” said Ebbo, “save for my shame and grief.”
“Thou art the last to be ashamed for that,” said the good-natured prince. “Have I never seen my faithful vassals more bent on their own feuds than on my word?—I who reign over a set of kings, who brook no will but their own.”
“And may we ask your pardon,” said Ebbo, “not only for ourselves, but for the misguided men-at-arms?”
“What! the grewsome giant that was prepared with the axe, and the honest lad that wanted to do his duty by his father? I honour that lad, Freiherr; I would enrol him in my guard, but that probably he is better off here than with Massimiliano pochi danari, as the Italians call me. But what I came hither to say was this,” and he spoke gravely: “thou art sincere in desiring reconciliation with the house of Schlangenwald?”
“With all my heart,” said Ebbo, “do I loathe the miserable debt of blood for blood!”
“And,” said Maximilian, “Graf Dankwart is of like mind. Bred from pagedom in his Prussian commandery, he has never been exposed to the irritations that have fed the spirit of strife, and he will be thankful to lay it aside. The question next is how to solemnize this reconciliation, ere your retainers on one side or the other do something to set you by the ears together again, which, judging by this morning’s work, is not improbable.”
“Alas! no,” said Ebbo, “while I am laid by.”
“Had you both been in our camp, you should have sworn friendship in my chapel. Now must Dankwart come hither to thee, as I trow he had best do, while I am here to keep the peace. See, friend Ebbo, we will have him here to-morrow; thy chaplain shall deck the altar here, the Father Abbot shall say mass, and ye shall swear peace and brotherhood before me. And,” he added, taking Ebbo’s hand, “I shall know how to trust thine oaths as of one who sets the fear of God above that of his king.”
This was truly the only chance of impressing on the wild vassals of the two houses an obligation that perhaps might override their ancient hatred; and the Baron and his mother gladly submitted to the arrangement. Maximilian withdrew to give directions for summoning the persons required and Christina was soon obliged to leave her son, while she provided for her influx of guests.
Ebbo was alone till nearly the end of the supper below stairs. He had been dozing, when a cautious tread came up the turret steps, and he started, and called out, “Who goes there? I am not asleep.”
“It is your kinsman, Freiherr,” said a well-known voice; “I come by your mother’s leave.”
“Welcome, Sir Cousin,” said Ebbo, holding out his hand. “You come to find everything changed.”
“I have knelt in the chapel,” said Wildschloss, gravely.
“And he loved you better than I!” said Ebbo.
“Your jealousy of me was a providential thing, for which all may be thankful,” said Wildschloss gravely; “yet it is no small thing to lose the hope of so many years! However, young Baron, I have grave matter for your consideration. Know you the service on which I am to be sent? The Kaisar deems that the Armenians or some of the Christian nations on the skirts of the Ottoman empire might be made our allies, and attack the Turk in his rear. I am chosen as his envoy, and shall sail so soon as I can make my way to Venice. I only knew of the appointment since I came hither, he having been led thereto by letters brought him this day; and mayhap by the downfall of my hopes. He was peremptory, as his mood is, and seemed to think it no small favour,” added Wildschloss, with some annoyance. “And meantime, what of my poor child? There she is in the cloister at Ulm, but an inheritance is a very mill-stone round the neck of an orphan maid. That insolent fellow, Lassla von Trautbach, hath already demanded to espouse the poor babe; he—a blood-stained, dicing, drunken rover, with whom I would not trust a dog that I loved! Yet my death would place her at the disposal of his father, who would give her at once to him. Nay, even his aunt, the abbess, will believe nothing against him, and hath even striven with me to have her betrothed at once. On the barest rumour of my death will they wed the poor little thing, and then woe to her, and woe to my vassals!”
“The King,” suggested Ebbo. “Surely she might be made his ward.”
“Young man,” said Sir Kasimir, bending over him, and speaking in an undertone, “he may well have won your heart. As friend, when one is at his side, none can be so winning, or so sincere as he; but with all his brilliant gifts, he says truly of himself that he is a mere reckless huntsman. To-day, while I am with him, he would give me half Austria, or fight single-handed in my cause or Thekla’s. Next month, when I am out of sight, comes Trautbach, just when his head is full of keeping the French out of Italy, or reforming the Church, or beating the Turk, or parcelling the empire into circles, or, maybe, of a new touch-hole for a cannon—nay, of a flower-garden, or of walking into a lion’s den. He just says, ‘Yea, well,’ to be rid of the importunity, and all is over with my poor little maiden. Hare-brained and bewildered with schemes has he been as Romish King—how will it be with him as Kaisar? It is but of his wonted madness that he is here at all, when his Austrian states must be all astray for want of him. No, no; I would rather make a weathercock guardian to my daughter. You yourself are the only guard to whom I can safely intrust her.”
“My sword as knight and kinsman—” began Ebbo.
“No, no; ’tis no matter of errant knight or distressed damsel. That is King Max’s own line!” said Wildschloss, with a little of the irony that used to nettle Ebbo. “There is only one way in which you can save her, and that is as her husband.”
Ebbo started, as well he might, but Sir Kasimir laid his hand on him with a gesture that bade him listen ere he spoke. “My first wish for my child,” he said, “was to see her brought up by that peerless lady below stairs. The saints—in pity to one so like themselves—spared her the distress our union would have brought her. Now, it would be vain to place my little Thekla in her care, for Trautbach would easily feign my death, and claim his niece, nor are you of age to be made her guardian as head of our house. But, if this marriage rite were solemnized, then would her person and lands alike be yours, and I could leave her with an easy heart.”
“But,” said the confused, surprised Ebbo, “what can I do? They say I shall not walk for many weeks to come. And, even if I could, I am so young—I have so blundered in my dealings with my own mountaineers, and with this fatal bridge—how should I manage such estates as yours? Some better—”
“Look you, Ebbo,” said Wildschloss; “you have erred—you have been hasty; but tell me where to find another youth, whose strongest purpose was as wise as your errors, or who cared for others’ good more than for his own violence and vainglory? Brief as your time has been, one knows when one is on your bounds by the aspect of your serfs, the soundness of their dwellings, the prosperity of their crops and cattle above all, by their face and tone if one asks for their lord.”
“Ah! it was Friedel they loved. They scarce knew me from Friedel.”
“Such as you are, with all the blunders you have made and will make, you are the only youth I know to whom I could intrust my child or my lands. The old Wildschloss castle is a male fief, and would return to you, but there are domains since granted that will cause intolerable trouble and strife, unless you and my poor little heiress are united. As for age, you are—?”
“Eighteen next Easter.”
“Then there are scarce eleven years between you. You will find the little one a blooming bride when your first deeds in arms have been fought out.”
“And, if my mother trains her up,” said Ebbo, thoughtfully, “she will be all the better daughter to her. But, Sir Cousin, you know I too must be going. So soon as I can brook the saddle, I must seek out and ransom my father.”
“That is like to be a far shorter and safer journey than mine. The Genoese and Venetians understand traffic with the infidels for their captives, and only by your own fault could you get into danger. Even at the worst, should mishap befall you, you could so order matters as to leave your girl-widow in your mother’s charge.”
“Then,” added Ebbo, “she would still have one left to love and cherish her. Sir Kasimir, it is well; though, if you knew me without my Friedel, you would repent of your bargain.”
“Thanks from my heart,” said Wildschloss, “but you need not be concerned. You have never been over-friendly with me even with Friedel at your side. But to business, my son. You will endure that title from me now? My time is short.”
“What would you have me do? Shall I send the little one a betrothal ring, and ride to Ulm to wed and fetch her home in spring?”
“That may hardly serve. These kinsmen would have seized on her and the castle long ere that time. The only safety is the making wedlock as fast as it can be made with a child of such tender years. Mine is the only power that can make the abbess give her up, and therefore will I ride this moonlight night to Ulm, bring the little one back with me by the time the reconciliation be concluded, and then shall ye be wed by the Abbot of St. Ruprecht’s, with the Kaisar for a witness, and thus will the knot be too strong for the Trautbachs to untie.”
Ebbo looked disconcerted, and gasped, as if this were over-quick work.—“To-morrow!” he said. “Knows my mother?”
“I go to speak with her at once. The Kaisar’s consent I have, as he says, ‘If we have one vassal who has common sense and honesty, let us make the most of him.’ Ah! my son, I shall return to see you his counsellor and friend.”
Those days had no delicacies as to the lady’s side taking the initiative: and, in effect, the wealth and power of Wildschloss so much exceeded those of the elder branch that it would have been presumptuous on Eberhard’s part to have made the proposal. It was more a treaty than an affair of hearts, and Sir Kasimir had not even gone through the form of inquiring if Ebbo were fancy-free. It was true, indeed, that he was still a boy, with no passion for any one but his mother; but had he even formed a dream of a ladye love, it would scarcely have been deemed a rational objection. The days of romance were no days of romance in marriage.
Yet Christina, wedded herself for pure love, felt this obstacle strongly. The scheme was propounded to her over the hall fire by no less a person than Maximilian himself, and he, whose perceptions were extremely keen when he was not too much engrossed to use them, observed her reluctance through all her timid deference, and probed her reasons so successfully that she owned at last that, though it might sound like folly, she could scarce endure to see her son so bind himself that the romance of his life could hardly be innocent.
